by Don Hall

Himmel wrote this morning about the wonders of the New Year's Eve kiss, that last all-in bet at the end of one year, and an optimistic hookup for the beginning of the next.

New Year's Eve has been two things for me in my advanced numbers: a working holiday or that magical kiss at midnight.

Of the thirty-six December 31st nights I've celebrated, twenty-eight of them have been working nights. Playing in jazz bands for couples who paid a premium for snacks, champagne, and party favors, running events for the same people a year later, on my feet and orchestrating the good time. Eight have been with a wife or a date because, improbably, I've always managed to be coupled up on NYE on those eight.

This year is different and while different is rarely bad, it certainly is strange. No wife. No girlfriend. No party. No social life in Wichita yet. My folks will go to bed by 9:00pm and I have a choice. Go out or stay in.

I thought about going out to be around other humans—perhaps a random hookup—but this is Wichita, KS and, at least until next month or so, I'm living in a room in my parents' house like Harry Potter under the stairs (it isn't nearly that pathetic except that Harry was a kid and I'm a grown man of a certain age. His wand was certainly in better shape than mine). Any woman so enticed by that guy living with his parents is unlikely to be of the highest quality as I am not of the best romantic material these days.

I thought about dressing up, making a reservation for one at one of the hotel parties this year, but the image of Steve Martin dining alone in The Lonely Guy nipped that idea in the bud. Maybe swing by a biker bar in town and just sit at the end, sipping drinks, and watching drunken revelers clumsily bump into each other with an episode of Law & Order: SVU on one television screen and the New York ball drop on three others? Nah.

There is magic of a sort in the air on New Year's Eve. There is that purchased hope of rolling that last cast of the die before the calendar officially flips. The meet-cute moment when your life resembles a romantic comedy and you find that partner to dance with for a few years before it turns to shit. There is that hope with feathers but my hope looks a bit like a scraggly chicken, one eye pecked out and a mangy rash on its neck, desperately foraging for seed amongst the rubble.

Like cousin Eddie in Christmas Vacation, I held out for management. Unlike Eddie, I have been hired as management and start next week. Maybe by NYE 2023 I'll be less beaten down and more worthy of that kiss, of that magic.

This year, tonight, I think I'll just have some BBQ, drink a bottle of Bourbon County stout and some Templeton Rye, and smile a grin of relief that 2022 is finally over like a Marine hearing that the war has been won and he gets to go home.